


Don't Think About Love

by AgentStannerShipper



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossdressing, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Mission Fic, Oral Sex, Sex is complicated, Vaginal Sex, aka tequila wears a dress in one scene, although mostly offscreen, discussions of alcoholism and drug addiction, lots of feels, most of this takes place between tss and tgc, partially, references to merlahad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 17:40:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16454432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentStannerShipper/pseuds/AgentStannerShipper
Summary: Tequila is a people person. Ginger isn't good with people. It's a good thing she's not interested in him as more than a friend.





	Don't Think About Love

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this for a while now, and it's finally ready to be released into the world. I cannot give enough thanks to unicornspaceinvasion, who unknowingly agreed to beta this miniature monster. Sorry I tricked you with ridiculous word counts, but a thousand kisses for all your help.

“Talk to me, Tequila,” Ginger orders over the coms. She knows it’s a risk; she can hear him panting and the feed from his glasses is shaking as he runs, but she needs him to spare just a few breaths to answer. His vital signs are all being relayed back to her computers, and with his adrenaline running so high and his heart rate skyrocketing as it is, she can’t actually tell if he’s going to need a medical team upon extraction or not.

It takes him a minute to respond, and when he does he’s nearly gasping. He’s fit, but he’s been fighting and running nonstop through a veritable maze of an underground base, and it’s starting to take a toll on him. “Nearly…there…” he pants. “They haven’t…hit me yet…”

“You’re not far from the surface,” she tells him. “Take the next left, and there should be a door at the end of the tunnel.”

“Guards?”

“Whiskey’s coming to you, so don’t worry about them. He’s taking care of it. Just focus on not getting shot. You’ve still got two more on your tail.”

Tequila laughs, although it sounds a bit more like a wheeze. “I can take them.”

“Top priority is getting that thumb drive back to our labs, Agent Tequila. Do not engage unless absolutely necessary.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He hits the door, wrenching it open and looking over his shoulders at his pursuers just in time to see them collapse to the ground, two pools of blood spilling out to the floor under their heads. Ginger glances to the other screen: from Whiskey’s perspective, Tequila looks like he’s been running a marathon – not entirely accurate but not far off. His hair is plastered to his skin with sweat and his face is red, his chest heaving. Tequila looks back at Whiskey just as she says, “Good job boys, but you’re not out of the woods yet.”

“I’ll get your boy home safely, Ging. Don’t you worry your pretty head about it.”

She grimaces at Whiskey’s bravado. It never sits entirely well with her, but she is a professional. “You’re both my boys, Whiskey,” she tells him. Before he can turn that into an innuendo - and he has before - she adds, “I’m your handler. It’s my job to get you  _ both _ home safely.”

Whiskey makes a sound that’s not entirely dismissive but doesn’t instill much confidence in her. Tequila rests his hands on his knees briefly, gulping in a few gasps of air, and then straightens up. “Alright. Should we be running?”

“You have a minute,” Ginger reassures him. She checks the scans. “But if you don’t want to start running again, I highly recommend you get yourselves to the jet right about now. They’re regrouping, and in a minute there’s going to be a lot more of them.”

“We can take them.”

“I’m sure you can, Whiskey,” Ginger snaps, “but there’s no need to risk your lives or waste bullets when you can get a move on. If they kill you, or worse, capture you-“

“Message received,” Tequila interjects. To Whiskey, he adds, “You best lead the way, or I’ve leaving without you.”

Whiskey hesitates a moment longer – Ginger grinds her teeth and tries not to growl in frustration – and then they move as a unit, jogging in the direction of the plane.

They take off with plenty of time to spare, and Ginger relaxes in her seat. “Good work, agents,” she tells them, even though she mostly means Tequila.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Tequila responds. Whiskey says nothing.

“I’m closing the channel now,” she says. “I’ll see you when you touch down.”

They sign off and Ginger lets out a deep sigh into the quiet of her control room. She likes doing missions with Tequila. He may be headstrong and a little dumb about some things, but he always listens and obeys her without hesitation, if not without question. She cannot say the same for most of the other agents, but especially Whiskey. Their arguments for fighting her decisions tend to run along the line of a nagging wife in their ear or some equally sexist bullshit she doesn’t have time for.

She hears a ding and turns to face another set of screens. The test results of her latest project are in. Good. It’ll give her something to do while she waits for Tequila and Whiskey to make their way home.

She loses track of time, absorbed in the project, and only looks up at the soft knock on her door. It opens and Tequila pokes his head in. He smiles shyly at her. “I brought you a present.”

She swivels in her chair. “Oh?”

He approaches carefully, holding the thumb drive out in front of him like an offering. With posture like that, she half expects him to kneel. He doesn’t, but he still manages to look smaller than he is, hunching in on himself. Ginger isn’t entirely sure why he does it; Tequila wanders around a lot of the time with his shoulders back, head up, and a bit of a swagger in his walk. She doesn’t understand why he never seems to behave that way around her.

“Thank you,” she tells him, taking the thumb drive and setting it on her desk. “And again, good work on the mission.”

Tequila shrugs. “Agent’s only as good as the person guiding them. Wouldn’t be half the agent I am without you.”

She blinks. “Thank you?”

He blushes and backs up, like he’s afraid of turning his back on her, and tips his hat. “I’ll just stop by medical. Make sure I didn’t pull anything from all the running. Save Becky from Whiskey’s flirting too.” He winks at her, the bravado returning with the distance between them.

Ginger laughs. “Please do. I really don’t want to give another lecture on workplace harassment. I know he never listens to me anyway.” She has to laugh because she doesn’t know what else to do. It gets under her skin, Whiskey’s behavior, but no one has ever filed a complaint, and she does ask. And it’s not like you can fire a spy for this type of misconduct. It’s one of the only downsides to her job.

As if he understands what she’s thinking about, Tequila gives her half a smile that’s more of a grimace and doesn’t quite reach his eyes before he slips out of her office with a nod of farewell. Ginger turns to her desk and runs her fingers over the thumb drive. She smiles faintly, and isn’t sure why.

***

Ginger swallows hard and tries not to wince in sympathy. Over the speakers, she hears Whiskey moan and murmur, “You feel so good, darlin’. Is this good for you?”

“So good,” the girl under him breathes. “Oh, please Jack, don’t stop.” There’s a note in her voice that rings loud and clear to Ginger, but goes completely over Jack’s head.

Ginger has been on the receiving end of bad sex before. She has, fortunately, never been on the receiving end of bad sex with Whiskey. That poor girl – her name is Ella and her father is dabbling in a few kinds of trafficking – is probably going to fake an orgasm and then lock herself away in the bathroom to get off properly, giving Whiskey enough time to poke around looking for incriminating evidence. At least, that’s what usually happens on these sorts of honey traps.

“Bad time?”

Ginger mutes the coms and beckons Tequila in. “Honey trap mission with Whiskey.”

The agent in question moans again and Tequila winces. “I can tell. Poor girl.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

Tequila drags a chair over, spinning it around so he can straddle it backwards, folding his arms over the back and resting his chin on them. “Why d’you let him?”

“Let him what?”

Tequila shrugs. “Do honey traps. He ain’t any good at them.”

It isn't really up to her, but she doesn't say that. “He gets the job done.”

“Not well,” Tequila mutters.

She looks at him as Ella’s moaning increases, begging Jack to go faster. “You haven’t told him that.”

“Neither have you,” Tequila points out. “Besides. He’d just turn it into a competition, make it out like I’m just jealous he gets more girls than me. Or say some shit about how maybe I’m just projecting because I’m a junky who can’t get it up half the time.”

Ginger winces. “Tequila…”

“It’s okay,” he says, giving her a half-smile. It’s self-deprecating and sad and it just looks wrong on Tequila’s face. “I know what I am. I’m…I’m trying, Ging, I promise.” He sighs. “I can’t tell if it’s hard because I can’t stop, or because I don’t really want to.”

Ginger doesn’t know what to say to that. Tequila stands, too restless to stay still, and Ginger doesn't mind him wandering around her lab, so long as he doesn't start poking things. For someone as big and bulky as he is, Tequila is real good about keeping his hands - and shoulders, and the rest of his broad frame - to himself. 

They stay silent, so the only sound in the room is Whiskey and his partner getting off, and yep, that’s definitely a fake orgasm on Ella’s part. Ginger mentally sends her condolences. If she were the one in the field, she’d do a lot better. Unlike Whiskey, she actually knows how to please a woman.

Ella gets up off the bed and heads towards the bathroom as Whiskey flops onto his back and watches her. She smiles coyly and says, “I’ll just be a minute.”

As soon as the door slams shut behind her, Ginger unmutes the coms and says, “Alright, Whiskey, time to get to work.”

“Aw, you’re no fun, Ging,” he says, even as he hauls himself upright and goes searching for his pants. “Never let me bask in the afterglow.”

“I will remind you, you are on a mission,” Ginger manages to keep her voice level. “You still have a job to do. Get to it, agent.” She mutes the coms again and says to Tequila, “You could do it instead, you know. Missions like this.” She's run two honey trap missions with him, back around the time he first joined up, but he hasn't done one since. “You're pretty good.”

“Pretty good?” Tequila laughs. “Could be worse, I guess.” He shuffles his feet, tucking his hands in his pockets, and shrugs. “Nah. Not really my thing. Don't get me wrong, there's a lot I'll do for Statesman, but…” He shrugs again. “Not really a fan of having sex for them. I dunno, feels like crossing a line somehow.”

“Even if it means leaving these poor, defenseless girls to Whiskey’s sub-par bedroom skills?” she teases, but she's not going to push and she tries to make it clear in her voice. Statesman asks a lot of their agents, but this isn't part of that. 

Tequila grins. “You could always send Lemon instead.”

“Lemon is not cleared for field missions,” Ginger reminds him. She probably should be. She trains their agents, after all. But the same thing that bars Ginger from entering the field is more or less the same thing that bars Maria. Champ apologises and tells them they're “too valuable” to soften the blow, but every time either of them vies for a spot at the table (because apparently that's the only way to get into the field), they get shot down by the man currently rifling through a filing cabinet shirtless.

It is just one of the reasons Ginger occasionally daydreams about wringing Whiskey’s neck. She gets it, sort of. Tragedy like Jack suffered, that doesn't just go away. But it's been more than fifteen years. He needs to get over himself. The sexist ‘protective’ nonsense isn’t any cuter than his unwelcome flirtations.

She swivels in her chair so she can look at Tequila properly. “Did you come down for anything specific?”

He shrugs again. “Do I need a reason to come see you?”

“None of the other agents visit me without one.”

“Maybe I think you're lonely.”

“I'm not,” Ginger tells him. She likes being alone most of the time, and it's not like she doesn't have friends. But when Tequila’s face falls, she adds, “But thank you. It's nice to know a least one agent wants to talk to me without needing something.”

He tips his hat. “Much obliged.”

She glances back at the screen and sighs. “Alright. Back to work. You’re welcome to stay if you want.”

“Nah,” Tequila shrugs. “I’d better skedaddle. Mission reports to write, and you know Champ is a stickler about those.”

“He has to be,” Ginger says. “I’ll see you around, Tequila.”

“See you, Ging. Thanks for letting me stop by.”

“Anytime,” she tells him, and switches the coms back on. “Alright, Whiskey, did you get everything?”

***

“Would you rather…” Lemon rolls onto her back, kicking her feet absently towards the ceiling as she thinks, “...never have to listen to one of Jack’s honey traps again, or get to go undercover as a couple with James?”

Ginger gapes at her. “First of all,” she says, “why would that even be a contest? Do you know how much I would  _ pay _ not to have to listen to some poor girl fake-moaning her way through sex while Whiskey gets off? And second of all, I like Tequila, but he-"

“Is not just hot, he's one of the sweetest guys I know, and if I swung that way I'd be all over him, and you know you would be too.”

Ginger shakes her head, grinning at the ridiculousness. Then again, what else could she expect from an adult friend who suggests playing ‘Would You Rather?’ when they hang out? “I was  _ going  _ to say,” she stresses, “that Tequila and I are just friends, if that, and your obsession with getting us together is frankly a bit concerning.” It is not the first time Lemon has brought up something like this in jest, but Ginger has never really taken it seriously. “Not to mention, in case it slipped your mind, I am still bi. That doesn’t mean anything. Tequila isn’t my type.” And office romances aren’t her style.

Lemon pouts. “Tragically, neither am I.” She clutches her chest dramatically. “In another lifetime, we might have been Statesman’s power couple, until you broke my heart and left me a devastated shell of a woman.”

“I'm sure Delilah will be delighted to hear that,” Ginger says dryly. She nudges her friend. “She'll just love to know her fiance is mooning over a coworker.”

Lemon grins at her. “First of all, Delilah is my coworker too. Just because she works in costuming does  _ not  _ make her any less a secret agent than the rest of us. Second, we have a pact that if you’re ever down for a threesome, you’re welcome to join us for a night.” At Ginger’s raised eyebrows, she says, “I’m kidding. Sort of.”

“Really.”

“You know, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were deflecting.”

“Deflecting from what?”

“The fact that James is one hundred percent your type. You can deny it all you want, but we both know you think he's cute “

“Sure, he's cute,” Ginger allows. “He's like a puppy following me around. You just want to scratch him behind the ears and call him a good boy.”

“Ooh, kinky.”

Ginger smacks her. “Not like that. Just...he's a friend, that's all. A good friend, maybe. But just a friend.” It’s hard to know exactly where she stands with Tequila, but they’re definitely more than coworkers, and she cares about him more than just as her agent. She’s pretty sure that counts as friendship.

“Sure he is.”

“If you don’t knock it off, I’m going to stop inviting you over for girls’ night,” Ginger threatens, but they both know she doesn’t really mean it. Lemon has been coming over to her house once a month since she started worked for Statesman, and it gives them both a breath of fresh air from the boys’ club the agency really is.

Lemon sits up on Ginger’s bed, crossing her legs and setting her hands in her lap. Her expression is no longer playful. “For real, though,” she says. “You’ve never thought about it? About dating him?”

“Why would I think about dating Tequila?” Ginger asks. “He’s, what, fifteen years younger than me?”

“Fourteen I think, and it’s not like he’s a kid.”

Ginger sighs. “I like him, okay? Really. He’s sweet, he listens to me, and he makes me laugh. But I don’t think I like him like that. Besides, if he liked me, don’t you think he’d say something? We’ve worked together for years and he’s never made a move.”

“He’s shy,” Lemon points out.

Ginger laughs. “Tequila, shy?”

Lemon raises her eyebrows, and Ginger stops laughing and thinks. “Okay, maybe,” she allows. “He does act a bit weird around me sometimes. But that doesn’t mean he likes me.” She buries her face in her hands and groans, “Ugh, I sound like a teenager again.”

Lemon grins at her. “So ask him to the prom. I bet he’d say yes.”

Ginger hits her with a pillow, and the conversation dissolves into nonlethal violence.

***

She’s lost sight of Lemon and Delilah, but she doesn’t really mind. She’s much too busy talking to Susanna, an adorably tiny redhead in a criminally short skirt with rainbow lace pinned to the hem. Susanna giggles just about every time Ginger says anything, and she keeps leaning closer, like Ginger is giving off some sort of gravitational force pulling her in.

“So what do you do?” Susanna asks her brightly, clearly less interested in the answer than playing with the fringe on Ginger’s sleeve.

Ginger smiles and half-lies through her teeth. “I work in the IT department for Statesman distillery. It’s in Kentucky.”

Susanna whistles. “You’re a long way from home then. What brings you to the Big Apple?”

A computer virus that, if it had been released, would have sent the developed world to a standstill in less than ten minutes and effectively destroyed life as they know it. “I’m here for Pride,” she says, gesturing to the street around them. “A bunch of us are up here on vacation for it.” That’s not actually a lie. Lemon and Delilah were in New York anyway, both for Pride and to visit Delilah’s family. “Always wanted to see a big one like this. It’s not quite the same in Kentucky.”

Susanna laughs again, “No, I bet not.” She’s practically on top of Ginger. Well, not on top of, she’s too short for that, but she is very close. Not that Ginger minds in the slightest. “So. If you’re here for Pride, then you’re-?”

“Ging?”

Ginger jerks back from Susanna, mouth dropping open as she stammers, “Um…”

Tequila cocks his head, leaning against the wall. He dwarfs Susanna, who looks up at him and then back to Ginger. “Ging? I thought you said your name was-”

“It’s a nickname,” Ginger says hurriedly. “Just, give me a second?” She flashes Susanna a smile and then drags Tequila away. When she’s confident no one will overhear them - it’s loud enough that they don’t have to go far - she stops and hisses, “The mission is over. What are you doing here?”

He folds his arms. “I could ask you the same question. Shouldn’t you be back in the hotel room?”

“It’s not technically being in the field if there’s no mission going on,” Ginger says defensively. She briefly considers lying, saying she’s just here because Lemon dragged her along, but she’s not ashamed of her sexuality and if Tequila has a problem with it that’s his own fault. Not that she expects he’ll have a problem with it. He’s incredibly enthusiastic about Lemon and Delilah's relationship, and not in the straight-boy-fetishizing-lesbians way either. He all but begged Lemon to be a bridesmaid, much to the trainer’s amusement. She later told Ginger she planned on asking him anyway, but it was fun to watch him get so excited over it. So Ginger doesn’t make an excuse; she lifts her chin and says, “I wasn’t about to miss out on Pride. I’m usually working. What’s your excuse?”

“Same,” he says, and that draws her up short.

“Oh. I didn’t know.” It makes sense, now she thinks about it, and she beats herself up a bit for not noticing. Her, of all people. Tequila had always seemed hesitant to discuss his past sexual and romantic partners, and he’s clearly uncomfortable around certain aspects of Whiskey’s chauvinism (because Whiskey  _ does _ do the straight-boy-fetishizing-lesbians thing, and that is why he is not invited to the wedding), and Ginger had just sort of chalked it up to the shyness she generally attributes to Tequila. But it fits. “I mean, you’re-?”

He shrugs. “I’m bi. I don’t hide it, but I’m not exactly ‘out and proud’ either. Champ knows. Lot of the staff too, especially in medical. I think Lemon might, and Vodka. That’s about it. Was always a bit worried about some of them finding out. Whiskey and Gin, probably. Definitely Moonshine. Not sure about the rest of them. It doesn’t really project the right image, you know? Screwing guys. And it ain’t like I’ve had a boyfriend in...shit, years. So it never really came up.” He shrugs again and rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.

Ginger hates how nervous he looks. She scolds herself again; she should have known, should have given him some sort of reassurance that he can trust her. But even though she’s a genius, she doesn’t know everything, and relating to people has always been hard for her. “I know what you mean,” she says. “Lemon knows I’m bi. I think Champ does too, but that’s it. I don’t talk about it. It’s not really anyone else’s business.”

“Exactly,” Tequila agrees, looking relieved.

She smiles at him, and when he smiles in return a relief of her own spreads through her at the sign of mutual trust. “Never really pegged you for a Pride sort of gal,” he says. “Massive parties...not really your thing.”

“Hey,” she objects. “I can have fun.”

“Your idea of fun is curling up with some science manual or other,” Tequila shoots back, and...well, he’s right. “It ain’t a bad thing. Everyone’s got their hobbies.”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. Pride is different. It’s not just a party. There’s a history. It’s like being part of something bigger.”

Tequila nods. “I get that.”

“And I’m guessing the party scene is pretty appealing to you, anyway.”

Tequila’s eyes narrow, and it sets a chill in Ginger’s stomach. “Why? Because half the people are high or wasted?”

“Wha- no, that’s not what I-” Tequila is  _ social _ . He likes being around other people. She hadn’t been trying to imply… “I mean, I know that’s something you do- did! But that wasn’t what-”

It doesn’t matter. Tequila’s face has already closed off, and he looks away. “Right,” he mumbles. “Yeah, that’s something I do.”

“Tequila, I’m sorry...” She really hadn’t been trying to bring it up. It’s hard enough for him, she knows, given that they’re surrounded by alcohol at work, not to mention the way Whiskey and some of the other agents talk to him. If she’d thought there was even a chance he could take it that way, she wouldn’t have said anything. But, well...revisit ‘not good with people.’

“Forget about it,” he says, and his voice has gone soft and doubtful. “Why don’t...well, don’t let me keep you. Pretty sure that gal you were chatting up isn’t gonna wait around forever.” He takes a step back and disappears into the crowd before Ginger can so much as protest or beg him to stop.

She goes back to Susanna, who frowns. “Who was that?”

“Coworker,” Ginger says, looking at where Tequila vanished. “I didn’t know he was bi.”

“So not an ex-boyfriend?”

Ginger looks at her, frowning. What is it with people thinking she and Tequila are (or were, or should be) involved? “No,” she says. “Would it be a problem if he was?”

Susanna grins. “Only if you were thinking of getting back together with him.” And she’s right back to flirty.

Ginger flirts back - or she thinks she does. She’s not very good at this sort of thing. But her heart isn’t in it. Her thoughts keep flashing back to Tequila, to the hurt look on his face, and guilt squirms in her stomach.

In the end, she doesn’t hook up with Susanna. She apologizes, excuses herself, and goes back to the hotel room.

Tequila’s room is connected to hers, a stipulation of the mission. She knocks on the door lightly and is surprised when it swings open. Tequila has glitter in his disheveled hair, bruised red lips, and his pupils are completely blown. He’s shirtless, and the button on his jeans is undone. She can’t tell if he’s high or if he’s just had sex. Possibly both.

“Sorry,” she backs up. “I shouldn’t have...sorry.”

She goes to close the door, but Tequila stops it with his foot, cocking his hip and leaning against the doorframe. “Did you want something?” It’s a genuine question, not snappy or aggressive.

She licks her lips, mouth dry. “I just wanted to see if you were in.”

He lets out a bitter chuckle. “As opposed to, what? Out partying?”

“Tequila-”

“It’s alright,” he says. “You can tell Champ I’ve been good. Just had a couple drinks, is all.”

Ginger feels her gaze drop down his chest again, and she forces herself to look back at his face. A slow smile, caught between nervous and self-deprecating, plays across his lips. “I didn’t do nothing,” he says. “Brought a guy here, but we didn’t do nothing. Couldn’t really get into it. You just missed him.”

“Oh.”

Tequila looks away. “Haven’t been feeling it for awhile,” he says softly. “Kind of hung up on someone at the moment.”

“Oh?” Ginger doesn’t know what else to say. She’s not good with this sort of thing, crushes and the like. Give her a computer any day. 

He studies her, and then nods. “Yeah. But they don’t feel the same. It’s alright, I know I ain’t a catch. We’re friends, I think. Maybe. That’s good enough.”

“Tequila,” Ginger starts, and then stops. She doesn’t know what she meant to say, only that it doesn’t feel right. Instead, she says, “You’ll find someone. Someone who loves you for you.”

He snorts. “In this job? Not likely.” He smiles. “Goodnight, Ging.”

“We have to be up early tomorrow,” she reminds him. “We have a flight to catch.”

“The Statesman jet waits for no one,” Tequila quips, but he’s still smiling as he starts to close the door.

This time it’s Ginger who stops it with her foot. “Tequila? I really am sorry about what I said earlier. I was just trying to say you’re a social person, and I know you like being around others. I’m sorry if it came out badly. And I’m sorry if I’ve ever done anything else to make you think I see you like that.”

Tequila studies her, and then his eyes go to the floor. “I forgive you. I hear it often enough, it’s just sort of where my mind goes first.”

“I know you’re trying.”

“I’m...trying to try.”

“So, are we okay?”

Tequila smiles again and nods. “Yeah, Ging. We’re okay.” And he closes the door.

Ginger sits on her bed and pulls her knees to her chest, resting her chin on them. She stares at the wall for a while, her mind blank - or possibly moving too fast for her to understand. Eventually, she takes her own advice and turns in.

***

Whiskey isn’t here right now, so there’s no one who can stop her from climbing into the chopper behind Tequila. It’s not really a mission anyway, just a short little jaunt, not even out of state. Champ will probably turn a blind eye on this one.

She analyses the strange readings on her tablet as they fly. It’s unlike anything she’s ever seen before, and it’s fascinating. She doesn’t know what caused it or what effects it’s had, but she’s very interested in finding out.

They touch down and find a body. Then a whole lot more bodies. They only try to save the one. Her Alpha gel is still a fairly new invention, but it works, and she’s grateful for it.

Ginger is pretty sure the signal is somehow responsible for the carnage. She thinks the man they saved must have been running away from the fight, although she doesn’t understand how he could have been shot from the front like that (and she’s pretty good at physics. He was almost definitely shot from a standstill too, which doesn’t make sense either). His glasses are odd, though, and she has them running through a scan right now, just in case. The man himself is still unconscious as his brain tissues knit back together through the Alpha gel.

Twenty-five hours later, Ginger understands why the church looked the way it did. She has several nasty cuts and bruises herself, not to mention a dislocated shoulder, and it’s only sheer luck - and the fact that she has taken all the same training classes as the agents and then some - that she’s still alive. It’s also lucky she and Tequila had been the only ones locked into that part of the compound, because otherwise their new patient and a much larger portion of their staff would be dead. The numbers are far greater than she wants to think about as it is.

“You ready?” Tequila asks her. He can’t meet her eyes. His own injuries are pretty severe; there’s a pencil stuck into his leg dangerously close to an artery, a makeshift weapon that Ginger won’t dare to remove until they have access to the medical wing, not to mention still-bleeding scratches very near his eyes from when she’d tried to blind him, and a slew of other bruises and cuts from landed blows. She can’t see it with his clothes on, but she’s pretty sure he’ll have a nasty mark on his hip and side later, courtesy of the chair she’d hit him with.

“Ready.” She relaxes when he touches her, his hands gentle at first and then rougher as he shoves her shoulder back into place and she screams, cutting herself off sharply and panting as she doubles over. “Shit. Okay.”

She straightens up again. “We have to do a check-in. We have to see who’s still alive. Staff and agents. Call in everyone who was off-duty. What else, um…”

“Ging. Hey.” Tequila catches her by the shoulders, then pulls back abruptly when she hisses in pain. Whatever it is that’s so urgent is overriding his shame - at least, Ginger thinks it’s shame, the reason why he couldn’t look at her in the moments between the first come-down of the signal and now - and he says gently, “Take a minute. Breathe.”

“We don’t have  _ time _ -”

“It’s over.”

“We don’t know that!”

“Ginger.”

She pauses, stares up at him. “Take a breath,” he says. “We need you, and you’re no good to us when you’re panicking.”

“Fuck you,” she says, because it’s that kind of day. “I’m still great when I’m panicking.”

He doesn’t laugh. She sits down hard on the floor. Most of the chairs are broken anyway, damaged in the fight. Tequila sits quietly next to her. He must still be pretty high on the adrenaline, because the pencil sticking out of his leg doesn’t seem to bother him.

“What  _ was  _ that?” she asks.

“I don’t know.”

“I wanted to  _ kill  _ you.”

“I wanted to kill  _ you _ .”

They both go silent. Then she says, “How can we be sure it’s over?”

Tequila shrugs. “This is the longest break since it started.” That’s not a guarantee, but it’s reassuring all the same.

She ought to pull herself to her feet, start making calls. See if it’s just Kentucky or nationwide or, god forbid, global. But she can’t move. She hugs her knees to her chest and looks over at Tequila, who is doing his very best to appear tiny and nonthreatening. “I’m not scared of you.”

“I almost killed you.”

Ginger snorts. “Please, I had you on the ropes.”

Together they burst into absurd giggles, and Ginger leans into Tequila, resting her head on his shoulder. She shouldn’t, not with what just happened, but she feels safe.

Eventually, though, she does have to get up and do her job. She unlocks the complex, and Tequila follows her to the medical wing. She stops in the doorway and nearly throws up, choking the bile back down with the reminder that if she ever were to go into the field, she would likely see a lot of things like this.

It’s different when it’s people she knows, though. Combat trained or not, a lot of damage can be done with a scalpel. She doesn’t even recognize the body closest to the door, the face is so badly disfigured.

“Ging?”

“I’m okay,” she pants. “I’m okay. Find the bandages? And a sling.”

He busies himself with that, stepping over bodies, his shoulders tight but ever the professional. Ginger hesitates, then steels herself, edging around the prone figures. She gives up trying not to step in blood about three feet in. There’s too much of it to avoid.

She finds Becky huddled in a closet, looking worse for wear but without any major injuries. She’s shivering. Ginger crouches down to be on her level. “Becky? It’s over. It’s alright.”

“Alright?” Becky’s voice is shrill. “They’re  _ dead _ . Ginger, what happened?”

“I’m still working that out,” she says, and she hates herself for having to add the next part, “but in the meantime, there are going to be a lot of people who need you. Is anyone else left?”

“I...I don’t know. I didn’t see.” Her voice is calmer but still tense, and she makes a move, like she’s going to peer around Ginger out of the closet, and then second guesses it and ducks back inside.

“Okay,” Ginger soothes. “That’s alright. Let’s just get you out of this closet, okay?”

Becky stands up on unsteady legs and it takes a little more coaxing on Ginger’s part as she helps the quivering medic back into the main part of the medical wing. Tequila has found the supplies, as well as one of the other surviving medical personnel, and he’s stitching the agent up with barely-shaking fingers. Ginger picks up the sling, resting next to Tequila’s thigh, and finagles her arm into it. Once it’s secure, she moves over to the monitors and switches them on, swapping the channel from the infirmary settings to the mainframe and pulling up the complete list of Statesman staff.

They’ve lost a lot of people. In the next twenty-four hours, Ginger learns that a quarter of the Statesmen themselves and about ten percent of their overall staff are dead. She recognizes most of the names on the list of the deceased and feels guilty for the amount of relief she gets when she realizes that Lemon and Delilah aren’t among them.

She sets up mandatory meetings with Statesman’s counselors, makes a note to tell Champ to hire a few more, and prepares to move on.

She hates thinking about it like that, moving on, because how do you move on from a tragedy of this magnitude? Everyone in the world is mourning someone all at once and nobody, as far as she can tell, has any concrete answers about why. She envies Butterfly Guy, as Tequila has since nicknamed their amnesia patient. At least he doesn’t have to remember what happened - what Ginger assumes he did - in that church.

He’s definitely one of them, in the sense that no civilian would ever have glasses with tech like that. They’re too badly damaged for her to activate or trace any kind of signal, but they are serious hardware on par with her own design. Which means they can’t release Butterfly Guy into the public. If he really is some kind of intelligence operative, who knows what he might do when his memories come back. Not to mention, he knows about Statesman, and they can’t risk him bringing that information back to whoever he works for.

Fewer field-ready agents means fewer missions for her to oversee while the old ones heal and Lemon starts to train the new ones, and Ginger begins spending a lot of her free time in their charge’s room, listening to him talk about butterflies and moths. It’s peaceful in there, like a little sanctuary.

Tequila joins her every once in a while. They don’t usually talk much, just listen, and Butterfly Guy is thrilled for the audience. But sometimes, Tequila looks at her, and she can see the guilt in his eyes.

“It wasn’t your fault, you know,” she tells him as they leave the room, just over a month after what’s being called V-day, named for Richmond Valentine, whose free sim cards had been pinpointed as the source of the signal. A lot of Statesman staff had them, including Tequila, who, upon hearing about the cards, took a hammer to his phone until only splinters of glass and plastic were left and medical was called in to pick the shards from his trembling hands. Ginger doesn’t even think that’s an excessive reaction. “You couldn’t control your actions any more than the rest of us could.”

“That’s what they say.”

“Tequila-”

“I hurt you, Ging. That ain’t something that I’m just gonna forget about with a little bit of therapy. It don’t matter that I wasn’t in control. I still hurt you. You’re my friend and I...I could have killed you. I couldn’t live with myself if I...”

She wraps her fingers around his wrist, pulling him to a stop. The hallway is empty, so Ginger doesn’t bother to keep her voice down when she says, “I’m  _ fine _ . You didn’t kill me. I didn’t kill you. We got off lucky, Tequila. A lot of these people didn’t. A lot of them killed someone they knew, a coworker or a friend or a family member. They have to live with that. We don’t. So stop looking at me like that. Please.”

Tequila opens his mouth and then shuts it again. “Okay,” he finally says. “Yes, ma’am.”

She sighs and, without really thinking about it, wraps her arms around his waist in a tight hug. He pulls her close without question and she’s a bit surprised at how soothing it is to be in his arms. She squeezes him a little tighter, the only allowance for weakness she can give herself, and murmurs into his chest, “We’re okay. We just have to keep going.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

***

The interesting thing about the collective trauma of V-day is how quickly everyone seems to get over it. Statesman refills its ranks and moves on. She and Lemon  _ still _ aren’t allowed a seat at the table, despite the desperate need for new agents quickly, and she only feels a tiny bit guilty about wishing V-day had put Whiskey out of commision. Not dead, necessarily. Just gravely injured.

But it’s not just Statesman who moves on. V-day was a global tragedy, one that some of the more dramatic news stations have taken to calling “one of the worst events in human history,” and the entire world gets over it in about six months. The Earth keeps spinning like before.

Even to Ginger, V-day starts to feel a bit like a fever dream. She compartmentalizes, and eventually the nightmares fade. Tequila starts behaving normally around her again, meaning he starts being shy and funny and awkward instead of shy and guilty and awkward. It’s good, she thinks. Human nature is to survive, and if that means sort-of forgetting a massive trauma, well, she’s not one to argue with human nature. Not when she’s so inexperienced with it herself. Give her the challenge of working with - or against - technology like the sim cards any day. It’s the machines she can really understand.

***

Ginger has never understood the appeal of summer weddings. Especially outdoor summer weddings. It’s too hot, the plants are all wilted or burned, and all that white is too reflective and makes her eyes hurt. She’s slathered in two layers of sunscreen over her purple maid-of-honor dress and she feels like she’s melting all over it, sweat beading up on the back of her neck and frizzing her hair.

At least she isn’t Tequila. He’s standing at the end of Lemon’s row of bridesmaids in a full tux, complete with purple waistcoat, and he has to be absolutely baking. Even so, he has the same enthusiastic-puppy look as always and there are already tears in his eyes, despite the fact that the wedding hasn’t even started yet.

Lemon is fidgeting beside Ginger, bouncing on the balls of her feet and making her knee-length wedding dress swish around her thighs. Ginger rests a steadying hand on her shoulder and Lemon relaxes into the touch, smiling back at Ginger nervously.

The music starts up and everyone turns and stands as Delilah makes her way towards them. She looks equally radiant in her own white dress - designed herself with the help of her coworkers - and escorted by her own bridesmaids, a couple of her fellow costume designers that Ginger only vaguely recognizes. Lemon’s breath catches and she doesn’t let it out again until Delilah has made it down the aisle to join them, handing off her flowers to the woman to her left and taking Lemon’s hands.

The officiant begins, his voice ringing and cutting clear through the humid air, but Ginger is too busy blinking - there’s a bug in her eye, she is  _ not _ crying - to really catch what he’s saying. She doesn’t tune in again until the officiant says, “Maria Costello, do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do.” She’s so choked up that the words are barely audible, and from this angle Ginger can see Delilah squeezing her hands, murmuring something no one but Lemon can hear. Whatever she says makes Lemon laugh, a watery but happy sound as she slides the ring onto Delilah’s finger.

“And do you, Delilah Perez, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do.” Not doubt, no hesitation. At the end of the row, Tequila is audibly sobbing. Delilah slides the ring onto Lemon’s finger and says something quiet that makes Lemon laugh again, stronger this time.

“I now pronounce you spouses for life. You may kiss the bride.”

Lemon surges forward, dipping Delilah and kissing her like something out of a movie. Champ and a few other members of the crowd laugh and whistle through the clapping and cheering of the rest, and several members of the costuming department are crying into what are probably bullet-proof custom designed hankies. Ginger smiles and claps too.

They move inside for the reception, thank god. Ginger stops into the bathroom to splash water on her face in an attempt to cool down. There’s an awful lot of hooting and hollering coming from the reception area, and she steps out of the bathroom, frowning as she makes her way back to investigate.

Tequila has changed, which seems to be the source of the comotion. Specifically, he has changed into a short purple sundress with white polka dots and a pair of low-heel strappy sandals to match. He grins across the room at her when he catches her looking, and twirls. The skirt lifts up as it flies around him, but not so much as to be indecent, and Ginger has to admit that it’s a good look on him.

He saunters across the room. Although his eyes are still a little puffy from the crying, he’s beaming. “Hey Ging. Wondered where you got off to.”

“Just needed to cool down.”

“Yeah, me too.” His grin widens as he gestures down at his ensemble. “What do you think?”

“Much more practical than the suit for this weather,” she agrees. “I didn’t know you owned any dresses. Is it new?”

“This one is. Got it just for the wedding.” Which implies he has others that are not new. That’s...interesting. A good sort of interesting. And unexpected, but then, Tequila has surprised her before. 

“Thought you weren’t advertising the whole queer thing?”

He shrugs. “Maybe I don’t care anymore. Life’s too short to let other people stop you being yourself. Especially when you have the skills to beat ‘em up if they start shit.” He goes quiet, and Ginger knows he’s thinking about V-day. Then the shadow passes from his face and he adds, “And it ain’t like Whiskey’s here to make fun of me. Besides, you don’t have to be queer to wear a dress.”

It’s a fair point. She smiles. “Well, it looks good on you.”

“Thanks.” He smooths down the skirt. “I’ve only really got a couple. It’s just something I like to do sometimes. Kind of relaxing, in a way.”

“Better you than me,” Ginger says. He frowns in question, and she shrugs. “What you see here? Is the only dress I currently own.”

“No kidding?”

“If I can’t wear pants, I’d rather wear a skirt.”

“Why?”

“More comfortable and easier to change out of.”

Tequila laughs. “Fair enough.” He leans against the wall, snagging a glass from a passing waiter and taking a sip. “You know, other than Pride, I think this is the first time I’ve seen you outside of work.”

Ginger thinks back, and realizes with a start that he’s right. Maybe it’s just because of the bonding-through-trauma of V-day or the joint time spent with Butterfly Guy, but she’d thought they’d seen each other more than that. She shrugs again. “Not surprising. Lemon is the only one I see outside of work on any sort of regular basis. I’m pretty busy.”

“And anti-social,” he teases.

He’s not wrong. She accepts a glass of champagne herself. “It doesn’t bother me.”

Apparently that’s a satisfactory answer, because Tequila doesn’t question her further on it. Instead, he says, “So what have you been up to? Any exciting experiments lately?”

“You don’t want to hear me talk about science.” No one ever does. Ginger is well familiar with the glazed expressions even some of her colleagues in the tech department get when she starts on a tangent.

“I really do,” Tequila insists.

“You asked for it,” she warns him, and then launches into a description of her latest experiment: an idea she had based on the toxins of certain fish species and, if she’s being completely honest, a television show. She trails off about halfway through, frowning at Tequila’s attentive expression. There’s not even a bit of eye-glaze, and he’s nodding along and frowning thoughtfully at her points. “You’re still listening.”

Tequila looks offended. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“It’s...boring.”

“You don’t think so.” Tequila grins. “C’mon, keep going. If the poison is released by pressure, won’t that be a problem if the agent puts a glass to their lips, or even just rubs them together?”

“See, that’s where I’m running into problems,” Ginger says. “That and, of course, the idea of getting anyone at the table to wear something they’d call ‘lipstick.’ Even a clear or beige balm would probably be vetoed.”

“Yeah, I’d have to veto beige too,” Tequila nods sagely, even as the corner of his lips quirk up. “I’m pretty sure I’m more a peach. Maybe a blush.”

Ginger laughs, partly in surprise and partly to cover the jolt that goes through her at the thought of Tequila pairing his dress with an appropriately-colored lipstick. Tequila grins and winks, and she files that emotion away to be considered later. He polishes off his champagne and signals a waiter for another one. “This is fun. We should do it again sometime.”

Ginger blinks. “What?”

Tequila hesitates and rubs the back of his neck. “I just mean, you’re pretty fun to talk to. You should get out more.”

“With you?”

“Just...more.” Tequila is turning a shade of red that doesn’t pair especially well with the purple of his dress and he grabs the champagne when the server hands it to him, swigging half of it down. After he swallows, he adds, “Not with me if you didn’t want to.”

“I want to.”

“You do?” He looks genuinely surprised.

She nods. “Lemon is always telling me to be more social. I like talking to her and I like talking to you. If you’re offering to engage in a friendly outing-”

“A friendly outing?” Tequila raises his eyebrows. “No one talks like that, Ging. I’m offering to hang out.”

“Alright. If you’re offering to hang out, then yes, I’d be interested. What did you have in mind?”

“Well, you know I’ve got a mission coming up, but after that…”

***

Ginger sits down at the bar, feeling self-conscious. She hunches in on herself a little more and toys with the pieces of the napkin she’s already shredded. This isn’t her sort of environment. It feels like there are eyes watching her, sizing her up like a piece of meat, and Tequila is nowhere to be seen.

“Can I get you something?” the bartender asks her.

“Just water, thanks,” she says. She looks around again and tries to pretend the man at the other end of the bar isn’t leering at her.

As she gets her glass of water, he slides a little closer. “Not drinking tonight, baby?” he asks.

“I’m not your baby,” she says, trying to sound cold but confident. She may be a highly trained secret agent, but that doesn’t stop the cold terror the wells up in her chest instinctually, thanks to a lifetime of encounters like this.

“Oh, don’t be like that, sugar,” he purrs. “Pretty thing like you shouldn’t be sitting here alone.”

“She’s not alone.” Out of nowhere, Tequila puts himself between her and the other guy just as he’s reaching for her bare knee. “And she could kick your ass from here to next week. So I’m gonna do you a favor and sit here with my friend, and you’re not gonna bother us. How does that sound?”

The guy hesitates, and Ginger knows he’s sizing Tequila up. He’s much shorter than him, and Tequila has shoulders broad enough to intimidate a linebacker. Wisely, the guy decides to accommodate Tequila’s request. He backs off and Tequila turns to her, intentionally positioning himself so he blocks the other man from view and angles them in towards the bar, creating a tiny corner of intimacy that allows her to relax a bit. “Sorry I’m late,” he says. “Traffic got a little backed up.”

“That’s alright. You got here just in time.” She almost certainly  _ could _ kick that guy’s ass, but she’s also not in the mood for physical violence. Besides, any ass-kicking would probably result in her being thrown out and then she wouldn’t be able to hang out with Tequila, which she’s surprisingly interested in doing.

He takes a seat, signaling to the bartender. His eyes flick over her once, and then he stiffens and directs them towards the floor. “So. You look nice.”

“Thank you.” She brushes down her skirt so it covers her knees again. “I thought I might forgo the lab coat on this occasion.”

“Hey, don’t knock the lab coat. It’s a good look.” Tequila grins, peering up at her again, and his posture relaxes when she smiles back. “So how’s it been going? Anything exciting happen while I was away?”

“Our friend, the John Doe?”

“Butterfly Guy?”

Ginger rolls her eyes. She’ll never call him that out loud, even if it’s what she refers to him as in her head. “Yes, him. He’s started painting.”

“Painting?”

“He asked for supplies, and now he’s got all sorts of diagrams and things painted on his walls. They’re actually very good. He’s a surprisingly talented artist.”

“Huh. I’d like to see that.”

The bartender sets a neon blue drink complete with an umbrella and a cherry - not what she would have guessed but not surprising either - down by Tequila’s elbow, and Tequila nods at him in thanks. Ginger raises her eyebrows, and Tequila shrugs. “They know me here.”

She’s pretty sure most bars within a ten mile radius of the Statesman complex know Tequila, but she she’s learned enough from past mistakes to not say that. What she does say is, “I didn’t actually get to watch any footage of your mission. How did it go?”

“Champ seems to think it went well enough.”

“You don’t agree?”

Tequila gives half a shrug and swirls his glass. “The bad guys don’t have their missile plans.”

“That sounds like a success to me.”

“We don’t have them either. I was supposed to bring them back. But they got a little soggy.”

“Soggy?”

“Kind of jumped out a window with them.” At Ginger’s wince, he adds, “It was open. No crashing through glass, I promise. But I landed in the pool.”

Ginger pictures Tequila suited and booted, dripping wet with his clothes clinging to him as he climbs out of some rich wanna-be villain’s pool, and then immediately forces herself to stop picturing it, locking it up with those other emotions she has yet to analyze. She clears her throat. “I think the world will be just fine without yet another set of missile plans in it. Statesman’s got a plenty big stack of retrieved ones as it is.”

“Bad guys,” Tequila scoffs, shaking his head. “You’d think they’d get a little more creative.”

“I hope not. Makes our job a lot easier if the megalomaniac of the month isn’t trying to be  _ special _ .”

“Fair enough.” Tequila takes a sip of his drink and gestures to Ginger’s water. “You’re not drinking?”

“Not today.”

“Can I ask why not?” There’s a wary note in his voice, like he expects her answer to be a holier-than-thou retort.

“Because my allergies have been acting up, and the sensible thing is to not mix my allergy medication with alcohol.”

“Oh.” He frowns. “Then why’d you agree to meet in a bar?”

She hadn’t known how to suggest some place else. “It’s fine.”

“You sure?”

She nods. “We’re already here.” And now that Tequila has joined her, she doesn’t mind it all that much. She goes silent, staring at her water, and Tequila quiets with her. 

“I don’t really know how to do this,” she says eventually.

“Do what?”

“Talk. Casually.”

“What are you talking about? You do it all the time.”

“And I can assure you, every single one of those times I’m floundering just as much as I am now. Without Lemon’s lessons, I don’t know if I’d be able to do it at all.”

Tequila laughs. “Well, as it so happens, I did take those same lessons, and I’m very skilled in the art of small talk. See, what you do is you open with a generic greeting. We did that. Then you talk about something benign for a little while, like the weather or work. We did that. Then you share something interesting that the other person might not know.”

“Something interesting?” Ginger plays along. “Like what?”

“Like...I can tie a cherry stem with my tongue.”

Ginger bursts out laughing. “I don’t believe you,” she says. “There’s no way you can tie a cherry stem with your tongue.” Actually, she half-expects he can, because that seems like the sort of thing he might have picked up, but challenging him on it seems a lot more fun. Or, at least, it increases the likelihood that she’s going to get to see him do it.

Tequila grins at her. “I can too. One of my ex-girlfriends taught me. She was real good at it, too.”

“Prove it then. Show me.”

“Yes ma’am.” Tequila plucks the cherry out of his drink, pulls the stem off, and pops it in his mouth. A few seconds later he sticks his tongue out at her and sitting on it is the cherry stem, tied in a neat knot.

She laughs, surprised at the delight that bubbles up in her. His smile widens and he blushes faintly. He spits out the stem onto a napkin and says, “See? Told you.”

“I’m sorry I ever doubted you,” she says. The words soften something between them and Tequila’s smile takes on a quality she can’t read. 

“It’s alright,” he murmurs. “Most people do.” Then, before she can say anything to counter it, he’s back to bubbly again. “Come on. Bet I can beat you at pool.”

“No way,” she shoots back. “It’s all math and angles.”

“Who needs math?” Tequila teases. “You gotta stop thinking Ging, just feel the balls.”

She inhales sharply and snorts with laughter. “You’re the worst,” she tells him, but she can’t quite manage to stifle her giggles at the terrible joke. He chuckles too, and Ginger shakes her head and collects herself. “Come on, then. You feel your balls, and I’ll show you that math is the superior tactic.”

He stands, slamming back the rest of his drink and grinning at her. “You’re on.”

***

“Tequila, are you listening to me?”

Evidence says he’s not, which means this mission is dangerously close to going sideways. “Tequila!”

“Hmm?”

“If you could stop staring at the mark for two seconds and actually pay attention to what I’m telling you-”

“I’m listening, Ging, I promise.” He sounds appropriately contrite, so Ginger lets it go.

“The safe is on the third floor, in his office behind the big painting.”

“Big painting?”

“Trust me, you’ll know when you see it.”

The feed from his glasses swivels back again and she bites back a sigh. She doesn’t understand why Tequila is so distractible today. “Tequila?”

“Big painting, safe, third floor office,” he mumbles.

“I’m setting up a security glitch in two minutes. That’ll give you five to get in, open the safe-”

“I can’t open a safe in five minutes-”

“It’s a digital one, that chip I gave you before you left will let me crack it remotely.” It’s like they’re not even trying, but their target  _ is _ unusually cocky. “So five minutes to get in, open the safe, get the documents and get out again.”

She waits for his okay, but it doesn’t come. “Agent?”

“Sorry ma’am. Yes, I’m on it.”

As he makes his ways upstairs, quietly asking a waiter where the nearest bathroom is (second floor, Ginger checked), Ginger watches him glance down at his hands, clenching them into fists. There’s the slightest tremor in them, and Ginger rewinds mentally to the last time she saw Tequila in person. He was agitated, fidgety. She’d chalked it up to just being Tequila - sitting still was never his strong point - but he’d also flinched violently when she’d fitted him for another tracker and gotten the band a little too tight. She know what withdrawal looks like. She’s not at all surprised when she rewinds the footage on another screen and watches it again. Their mark is laughing, snorting what Ginger assumes is cocaine off the collarbone of the woman in his lap.

“You okay, Tequila?” she asks, and means more than just the mission progress.

Tequila must pick up on the tone of her voice because he hesitates and then says, “I’m doing alright, ma’am. Almost to the safe.”

“Alright, agent.”

She’ll take his word for it. But that’s not going to stop her from worrying.

***

Ginger sticks to the outskirts of the room. It’s not that she doesn’t like parties, it’s just that...well, Tequila was right. She doesn’t really like parties. They’re alright on a smaller scale, with fewer people, but the Statesman Christmas party is huge, even when it’s just for the covert part of the company.

She doesn’t touch the alcohol. She’s off the allergy medication for the winter - finally - but she still doesn’t like drinking in front of large crowds.

Lemon, on the other hand, is well on her way to being completely sloshed, along with the rest of the agency. She keeps giggling, intentionally dragging her wife under mistletoe every few minutes or so, as if she needed an excuse to kiss Delilah, who mostly seems amused by her partner’s antics.

Ginger watches them for awhile, then scans the room again. She recognizes everyone here at least vaguely; it’s part of her her job to know the staff, after all. But she also recognizes who isn’t here, and it’s a bit concerning.

She finds Champ, stationed along the edge of the room near the punch bowl and keeping a watchful eye on the crowd. “Where’s Tequila?” she asks, quietly as she can manage without being drowned out by the din.

“I saw him earlier,” Champ tells her, “but I think he skipped out.” He glances down at her. “Why? You worried?”

“About him?” Ginger says. “Always.” But more so lately.

Champs nods in understanding. “That boy will always get himself into trouble. You can’t pull him out of it all the time. Gotta let him learn for himself.”

“Yeah. Right.” Still, Ginger glances around the room again. 

The next time Lemon dances by, Ginger snags her and Delilah. “Have either of you seen Tequila?”

Delilah looks around. “I thought he was still here.”

“Why do you want to see him?” Lemon’s words are slurred just slightly as she teases. “Looking for mistletoe kisses?”

“Looking to make sure he’s alright,” Ginger reminds her patiently. She shoves them gently back toward the dance floor. “Go have fun. I’ll find him eventually.”

Except no one at the party seems to know where he is, and that terrifies Ginger, maybe more than it should. But Tequila’s behavior has been off the last few weeks. The obvious symptoms of withdrawal have been worsening, and it’s made him irritable and snappish, even to her. It’s bad, and now he’s disappeared, and Ginger can’t help but fear for the worst. She just hopes she’s wrong.

She pulls out her phone and lets her finger hover over Tequila’s number before finally calling it.

There’s no answer.

“Okay,” she says to no one. “You’re overreacting. He’s probably fine. Just out partying somewhere else.” But it’s not a reassuring thought.

The phone buzzes into life in her hands and she nearly drops it in surprise, but it’s not Tequila on the other end. She doesn’t recognize the number, and she hesitates before answering. “Hello?”

“Are you Elizabeth Miller?”

“Yes…”

“I’m calling about James Walker.”

Ginger’s body turns to ice. “What happened?”

“Emergency services picked him up about half an hour ago…”

***

Tequila looks awful. At least he’s conscious and alert, but he also looks like he’s been figuratively run over by a truck a couple times. He’s pallid, his breathing too quick, and he has the distinct look of someone who’s recently thrown up. But it’s nothing compared to the look of sheer horror that dawns on his face when he catches sight of her. He can’t run, so all he can do is look away from her when she sits next to the hospital bed. “What did you do, James?” she asks. His codename doesn’t feel appropriate here, but using his real name is almost uncomfortably intimate.

He looks ashamed, and he doesn’t answer her at first. But she waits, and eventually he mumbles, “I’m sorry.”

“That’s not what I asked,” she says gently. 

“Just read the fucking chart,” he mutters. “Says it all anyway.”

“I want to hear it from you.”

“I fucked up, okay?” Tequila snaps. “I fucked right up like a goddamn amateur, and I wound up in the fucking hospital.”

“James-”

“It wasn’t nothing hard. Just...I had a few too many, and then I wanted to smoke a bit. Just pot, no big deal.”

“No, big deal,” Ginger echoes. “James, you know-”

“Yeah, I know.” He sighs, and he still can’t meet her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’ve just been having a bit of a rough time of it lately, and I figured that would be okay. Take the edge off. But I think it might have been laced with something, ‘cause this don’t usually happen.”

She reaches for his chart. He was apparently unconscious when they brought him in, but there’s no external trauma. Passed out, then. Plenty of nausea and vomiting. His heart rate was elevated, marked with a warning in case it started to crash. He’ll be physically fine with a bit of rest, but it’s not his body she’s worried about right now.

She sets the chart down and looks at him. “Why didn’t you come to me?” she asks. “We could have taken care of you at Statesman.”

He chuckles darkly. “Yeah. Sure. Because I like seeing Jack fucking Daniels looking at me like I’m white trash. Because it’s just fucking awesome disappointing you.”

Ginger frowns. She hesitates, and then says, “I’m your emergency contact.”

He nods. “Thought about making it Champ, but I trust you more. Not that I don’t trust him,” he adds quickly. “He’s like a father to me. Just...hard as it is when I disappoint you, it’s even worse when it’s him.”

“He wouldn’t judge you for this.”

“Oh, he absolutely would.” Tequila shifts and winces in pain. “He’s always talking about me being better, fighting this shit. About how a real agent wouldn’t be like this, and I might as well go back to that sideshow of a rodeo if I’m not gonna take it seriously.”

“Are you sure you’re not putting words in his mouth?”

Tequila gives half a shrug and winces again. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“It’s because he cares about you. We all do. You need help, James,” she tells him. She reaches out and he startles when she takes his hand.

“I’m fine,” he mutters. Then he sighs. “Alright, I’m not fine. I need help. I know I do. It’s just…”

“What?” Ginger asks. She squeezes gently. “Talk to me.”

“That’s it, though,” he says. “Talking. I don’t like...I don’t like to talk about this shit. It ain’t your job to fix my fucked up brain, and I don’t want to talk to no stranger about it either. So I’m stuck.”

Ginger contemplates that for a moment. She brings Tequila’s hand up and rests her chin on it. She’s not normally one for excessive contact, but she likes this, likes knowing that he’s still here, that she hasn’t lost him to a stupid choice, and the gesture makes him look towards her for the first time. “You know,” she says. “Statesman has counselors.”

He snorts. “They’ve got enough on their plate. Awful lot of functioning alcoholics around here.”

She arches her eyebrows, and he adds, “I never said that wasn't me.” He looks away again. “I know I’ve got a problem. I ain’t pretending otherwise. And maybe I could stop, but maybe I can’t, and either way I know I should be talking to someone about it, but I feel like there’s no one I can talk to and it just spirals down from there. I can’t win.”

“Then stop playing the game,” she says. She presses a kiss to his knuckles. “You’re my friend, James. Not just one of my employees, not just an agent. You’re my friend, and I want to help you. I can’t be your therapist, but whatever else you need, I can do.”

He’s silent for a long time, and Ginger starts to wonder if he’s going to say anything or if she should just leave. Then, very quietly, he murmurs, “You could come with me.”

“Come with you?”

He nods. “I don’t...I don’t want to go on my own. To talk to the counselors. You could come with me.”

“I really shouldn’t be sitting in on your therapy, James,” she begins.

Tequila cuts her off, “Just the first session. I just need one. If I can do one, I...I think I can keep going on my own. Please?”

It’s unprofessional. For obvious reasons, Ginger has access to every agent’s medical records, physical and otherwise, but the mental aspect is painted in broad strokes, no specifics. This is personal. It’s unprofessional. It’s probably a bad idea.

Ginger squeezes Tequila’s hand again. “Just one,” she says. “I’ll take you to your first session. But then you’ve got to do it on your own.”

Tequila smiles shyly at her, and something in her chest unknots and settles. “Thank you, Ging,” he says.

“Elizabeth,” she tells him. “We’re not at work. You can call me Elizabeth, if you want.”

He tilts his head, his forehead creasing in confusion, but his smile broadens anyway. “Thank you. Elizabeth.”

***

Therapy does Tequila a world of good. Or, at least, he seems a lot happier now. Ginger only went to the first meeting, as promised, but she knows he’s gone twice a week for about three months now, and when they talk - because they do, outside of work, meeting up in cafes and parks and once a science exhibit Tequila thought she might have been interested in - he sounds more confident, more at ease in his own skin. It looks good on him.

“I can’t believe you’re actually dating him,” Lemon had said at their last girl’s night. “Like, I spent  _ years _ trying to get you to admit you liked him and you’re just...dating him.”

“We are  _ not  _ dating,” Ginger had protested. “We’re friends. We just hang out sometimes. You know, like friends do?”

Lemon had rolled her eyes and mumbled something about geniuses being idiots, but she let the subject drop.

“Lemon thinks we’re dating,” Ginger tells Tequila next time they’re out, this time at a frozen yogurt place that Ginger had heard about and mentioned wanting to try - and promptly gotten into an intense debate with Tequila over ice cream versus frozen yogurt. He maintains that frozen yogurt is disgusting and ice cream is the only truly good frozen dessert and he is  _ wrong _ . 

Tequila freezes, halfway through pulling an exaggerated face of disgust at a bite of her delicious mango dessert. He sets the spoon down. “Oh.”

Ginger frowns. “What?”

“I didn’t realize that people...I mean, I didn’t think…”

“Didn’t think what?”

Tequila swallows hard. “I didn’t think people would be talking about this.”

“This?”

He gestures between them. “This. Us seeing each other outside of work.”

“It’s just Lemon. You know I talk to her. Hell,  _ you  _ talk to her.”

“Not about this!” Tequila protests. He flushes and stabs at the yogurt absently. “It’s just kind of weird, I guess. Knowing other people know. It’s not like I really hang out with anyone else outside of work.”

“Oh.” Ginger frowns. She hadn’t thought telling Lemon would be a problem. Tequila’s discomfort strikes her as odd.

“It’s okay,” Tequila forces a smile that doesn’t fully reach his eyes. “You’re right. It’s just Lemon.”

Ginger is about to push the point when Tequila goes to take another scoop of her yogurt, and then she’s more focused on fending him off with her spoon. “Hey, you said you didn’t like it!”

“I don’t!” 

“So stop stealing mine!”

And the conversation is forgotten.

Except it really isn’t.

***

“Lemon is right.”

“What?” Ginger startles and almost drops the tablet she’s holding. She hadn’t noticed Tequila behind her. She glances around the hallway and takes a step into her lab.

Tequila follows her and repeats, “Lemon is right. Well, okay, she’s not really  _ right _ right, those weren’t dates, but-” He cuts himself off and turns faintly pink, ducking his head and studying the floor. “I like you,” he says quietly. “I know it’s not really welcome, or appropriate, but there it is. I like you.”

Ginger can’t say anything. She’s too stunned. Her brain manages to repeat, ‘Lemon was right,’ but everything else is frozen.

Quickly, Tequila adds, “I ain’t gonna do nothing about it, I swear. I know it ain’t like that, that we ain’t like that. It won’t affect my work, and I still wanna be your friend. I just...you deserve to know. You’re my best friend, Ging. I didn’t want to keep something like that from you. Didn’t feel right.”

“You like me,” is the only thing Ginger can say. She feels like the human equivalent of a record scratch, looping back to the same moment with an unpleasant screech in her brain as she tries to process the information. 

Tequila nods. “Yes ma’am. I know you don’t feel the same way, and I’m okay with that. Just didn’t want to hide it anymore. I’m sorry.”

“Can you-” Ginger stops herself and starts over, “James, I’m going to need a minute. I really wasn’t expecting…”

“No, of course,” he immediately takes two steps back, and she feels the distance between them keenly. “I’ll go.” And he does.

Ginger sits down hard and shakes her head. She doesn’t know what to think. She likes Tequila, of course, as a friend, but anything else...she doesn’t know. Tequila is smarter than he thinks and he’s funny and she loves spending time with him. He forgives her social missteps and she forgives his. They’re both outsiders in their own way, and they’re bonded by that. And he’s so sweet and earnest and he’s come so far in trying to be better, and any girl - or guy - would be lucky to have him. Ginger can easily picture coming home to him, or more realistically having him come home to her, that vision of domestic bliss that people talk about but don’t really believe in. With more explosions and a shorter life expectancy, of course, but it’s there. And it looks so good.

_ Oh.  _ Ginger blinks and reevaluates every interaction she’s ever had with Tequila. She unpacks all the emotions, the little heart-flutters and the pushed-away desires and every thought about Tequila that she’d packaged up and tucked away ‘for later.’ The results are fairly conclusive: she likes him. Possibly more than likes him, but she’s not sure she wants to go there just yet.

That changes things.

***

“I like you.”

Tequila looks up, surprised. The weight he’s holding goes back to the floor and Ginger shifts awkwardly on her heels. There’s no one else in the gym, but she keeps her voice low anyway when she repeats, “I like you. Too. I like you too.”

Tequila’s face splits into a grin. “No shit, really?”

“Really. For a while, I think, but I’m not very good at this sort of thing.”

“That’s alright. I’m not great myself. But it’ll be a good learning experience, don’t you think?” 

“Are you laughing at me?”

“No ma’am.” Tequila’s smile doesn’t falter. “I’m just happy, is all. It ain’t everyday a beautiful woman tells you she likes you back.”

Ginger blushes and glances around the gym again, making sure it really is empty. Feeling bold, she runs her fingers down Tequila’s face, cupping his chin so he’s looking up at her from where he’s sitting. She hesitates, then leans in and kisses him.

It’s gentle, chaste, and Tequila follows her lead, his eyes fluttering shut as he melts under her, and Ginger straddles his lap, her skirt riding up her thighs so that when Tequila touches her, steadying her on top of him, he’s touching bare skin, and she shudders because his hands are big and warm. 

Her hand goes from his face to the back of his neck, drawing him closer, and he tangles his fingers in her hair as she deepens the kiss, swiping her tongue over his lips, asking for entry.

The door bangs open loudly and Ginger flails and falls, startled by the noise. She lands on the ground with a thump, the padded floor doing little to soften her fall. She feels her cheeks go dark as blood rushes to them, and she stands up quickly, shoving her skirt down again and brushing herself off. She runs a hand through her hair, hoping it’s not too terribly disheveled, and looks around to see the intruder. It’s just Vodka and he’s not even paying attention to them. Ginger looks back to Tequila, who is biting his lip to keep from laughing.

She giggles herself, and then he’s giggling too, and then they’re both actually laughing and Vodka looks over, frowning in confusion, which just makes them both laugh harder.

Ginger clutches her stomach, catching her breath. “You,” she tells Tequila, “are a very bad man.”

“What did I do?”

“You’re entirely too tempting for your own good.”

“Seems to me that that’s an impulse control problem on your part.” Tequila flashes her a dazzling smile. “I can’t help being this adorable.”

She swats at his shoulder lightly. “We are going on at least one proper date before you get lucky.”

“I thought I already was lucky.” And dear lord, he looks like he actually means that ridiculously cheesy line. He is going to be the death of her.

She clears her throat, fighting the urge to blush again. “I should be going. I just wanted to, well, you know.”

“I know.” He’s still grinning at her.

“Enjoy your workout.”

“I will.”

She escapes before the joking comment about maybe watching the footage of him in the shower afterwards can escape her lips. They are in public, after all, and she takes her job too seriously to abuse her position like that. Even if it is tempting.

***

Ginger opens the door and frowns. “What are you doing here?”

Tequila shuffles his feet, hands wringing together the way they sometimes do when he’s nervous and fidgety. “I’m sorry. I should have called first. I can go.”

“Wait.”

He pauses, and Ginger takes a step back, gesturing him inside. He steps over the threshold, toeing off his boots and setting them neatly by hers next to the door. “I thought about bringing flowers, but then I remembered your allergies, and I didn’t want to risk getting the wrong type.”

The wrong type is nearly every type of flower, and Ginger appreciates the thought. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Glass of water would be nice.”

She gets two glasses of water, because it doesn’t feel right not to have something in her hands when Tequila does, and then leads him into the living room. Tequila doesn’t so much drink his water as roll the glass in his hands, looking around at the decor. “This is a nice place.”

“Thank you.”

“You decorate yourself?”

“Not really. I’m kind of hopeless with that sort of thing. Lemon did most of it.”

“She’s got a good eye.”

They lapse into a silence only slightly less awkward than the small talk. Finally, Ginger asks again, “What are you doing here?”

“Well, Lemon gave me the address.” He takes a gulp of water and swallows hard, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “I, uh. Well, I kind of wanted to see you? And I knew you were off the clock, and Lemon said you might like it if I surprised you, and…” He flushes. “I’m starting to realize that maybe listening to Lemon isn’t the best idea.”

“No, it’s a good idea,” Ginger says. “This is a nice surprise. Why did you want to see me?”

Tequila mumbles something indistinct.

“What?”

“I missed you.”

“Oh.”

His blush darkens, and he sets the glass on the table and goes back to fidgeting with his hands. “I know it’s kind of dumb, but I was away for a week for that mission in Belize, and you weren’t in my ear, and I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” She’s not humoring him. She really did. She doesn’t like turning his missions over to other handlers, but even she can only do so much and she’d been busy with Vodka and Gin’s joint mission up in Ontario. 

“Yeah?”

She nods. “So, you got back and you decided to come see me?” When he nods sheepishly, she smiles and stands up, coming over to sit next to him on the couch. “That’s very sweet of you, Tequila.”

“You can call me James, you know. If you like.”

“I thought you liked Tequila?”

“I do. Just...it’s different here. More intimate.”

“Okay, James.” 

She smiles, and he ducks his head and peeks up at her. “So can I call you Elizabeth?”

“You can even call me Liz, if you like.” Few people are allowed the nickname, but Tequila is special.

“Not Lizzie?”

“Not if you want to stay on my good side.”

“Oh, I very much want to stay on your good side, ma’am,” he teases. He bites his lip, and that looks like a very good idea, so Ginger leans over and does the same, drawing his bottom lip between her teeth and relishing the way he shudders and then goes still. She withdraws and he surges after her, covering her body with his own and cradling her as he presses her into the couch cushions. Despite the dominance, once she takes control of this kiss he lets her. She digs her fingers into his short hair and guides him the way she wants, exploring his mouth with her tongue and savouring each little moan that drips out of it. 

She can feel his erection pressing into her hip and she pants against his mouth and shifts, throwing one leg up over his. Or rather, she tries to. Her skirt is tangled up under her and she only manages to move her leg about an inch. Instead, she places her hands on Tequila’s chest and pushes him back. He tilts his head, sitting back on his heels, and she sits up.

“Do you want to go upstairs?”

“Upstairs?”

“To bed,” she clarifies. “Sex. Do you want to have sex?” It’s about the least seductive way she could phrase it, but at least Tequila isn’t laughing at her.

Instead, he asks, “What happened to waiting for a proper date?”

“Screw that.”

He laughs and climbs off the couch, helping her up. “After you, ma’am.”

They’re both laughing by the time they make it through the door to her bedroom, Tequila scooping her up and tossing her down onto the bed with little effort. She props herself up on her elbows and watches him strip off his shirt, his expression turning playful when he notices her looking. He turns it into a bit of a tease, rolling his hips to music only he can hear as he works it off his body. Ginger is caught somewhere between thinking it’s ridiculous and really,  _ really _ hot, and she presses a hand down between her legs, then up under the hem of her skirt.

Tequila drops the shirt to the floor and crawls onto the bed, pulling her hand back gently and spreading her knees, pressing kisses up along her thigh. Ginger lets out a shuddering breath. 

He stops just before he gets his mouth where the burning pleasure is starting to gather, resurfacing from under her skirt and grinning before stretching up to kiss her. He rucks her skirt up a little so he can settle more easily between her legs and she hooks one knee against his waist to draw him a little closer. There’s a delicious bulge in his jeans that she really wants rubbing against her, and with a little guiding Tequila is happy to put it right where she wants it. His hands go to her hips as he grinds down, her legs spread as wide as she can get them to accommodate his bulky frame, and the seams of her skirt strain with the effort. It’s just the right side of rough and perfect, denim against the cotton of her underwear, not as wet as she expected but getting there slowly.

“Mmm.” She tips her head back against the pillow and sighs. Her fingers go to her blouse, fumbling with the buttons, and Tequila stops and watches her, head tilted like a curious puppy. She bites her lip and blushes as she gets it open, baring her skin to his gaze. The bra she’s wearing isn’t one of her nicer ones, and she feels suddenly self conscious, but Tequila’s eyes are hungry. He drinks her in for a moment before parting her shirt fully with gentle hands, untucking it so he can pepper kisses across her stomach and nip at the skin. Ginger sits up and he moves with her, helping her shrug her shirt off and unsnap her bra so she’s topless like him.

He reaches for her hesitantly, and she takes his hand and puts it on her breast, encouraging him to touch, to thumb the nipple and then duck his head lower to taste her. She bites back a moan and strokes his hair. “Come on, baby,” she murmurs. “Let’s get your pants off.”

“Yes ma’am,” he says, pulling away from her, and his hands go to the button on his jeans. She likes him like this, obeying her without hesitation. She watches him shed his pants and boxer briefs, cock flushed and hard as it springs free, and she finishes undressing herself at the same time. Her skirt and underwear finds a home on the floor with the rest of their clothes. She reaches for him, drawing him into a kiss that’s slow and sweet, and he lets her lead.

It occurs to her, maybe a little too late, to ask, “Wait, you’re sober, right?”

Tequila blinks, sitting back and looking hurt. “What makes you think I’m not?” He sounds defensive, and while Ginger doesn’t blame him, she also needs to know.

“I’m not having sex with you if you’re high or drunk,” she tells him, sitting up and scooting back to put a little space between them.

He looks away from her and she watches as all the fight leaves his body. “Because I’m just a junkie, right?”

“Jesus, James, it’s not just about that!” Ginger bursts out, frustrated. “Do you understand all the different consent issues involved here? Because I’m technically your superior, and I’m a lot older than you, and we both know you don’t always make the best choices when you’re high. I don’t want this to be one of those bad decisions. I know you’re trying, baby, but I also know that cold turkey is hard, and I can’t...it’d be taking advantage.”

Tequila’s expression changes, melting from that familiar self-deprecating look to something akin to relief. “It ain’t like that,” he says softly, covering her hand with his. “I promise you, it ain’t like that. I like you. A lot. And I wouldn’t screw that up by shooting up before this.”

“What about liquid courage?”

Tequila laughs and shakes his head, “No ma’am.” He’s shy again. “No drugs, no alcohol. I promise. I want this. Want you. In whatever way you’ll have me.”

It’s so earnest that it makes Ginger’s heart ache. She cups his cheek and presses a soft kiss to his lips. “Alright,” she says. She strokes her hand down his chest. “Do you have a condom?”

Tequila opens his mouth, looking nervous, and she cuts him off before he can go on the defensive, “It’s not me not trusting you, because I run all your blood tests, I know you’re probably clean, but you did just come back from a mission and I work with a lot of blood and chemicals and-“

“And it’s a good habit to be in,” Tequila finishes for her. He looks amused. “I know. You’ve given me the speech a couple times, and I’ve heard you give it to Whiskey and the other agents plenty more. What I was  _ going _ to say was that I didn’t think to bring one. Didn’t exactly expect to end up here, you know?”

She blushes. “Right. Uh, hang on a second.” She climbs out of the bed and goes digging under it. Tequila hangs over the side, chin on his forearms, watching her with interest. Though it’s possible he’s only interested in her ass, which is completely on display in this position. She doesn’t mind, because at least he doesn’t try to smack it. She hates that, and more than one guy has been kicked out of her bed for trying.

She finally manages to unearth the box she's looking for, fishing out one of the foil wrappers and checking the date. “Should be fine,” she says, tossing it up to him.

Tequila just manages to catch it, darting upright while she puts the shoebox on the nightstand. He lifts his eyebrows. “Glow in the dark?”

“I got it at Pride,” she says. She really doesn't have sex often enough to warrant keeping a proper box in her house, so she has her miscellaneous ones. They work fine. She pokes around in the box. “We've got some flavored ones, a couple rainbow, some more generic...”

“Gotta love anything that gives out free condoms,” Tequila laughs. He grasps his cock and gives it a few strokes, bringing it back to full hardness, and then tears the package open. “Still. Might look a bit funny.”

Ginger climbs onto the bed next to him and teases, “As long as we leave the lights on, I think I can manage not to laugh.”

He grins at her. “Maybe we should turn them off, then. If you're busy laughing at my glowing dick, you can't laugh at my terrible skills in bed.”

“You can't be worse than Whiskey,” she tells him, and he laughs and rolls the condom on as she lays back. He situates himself between her legs and she wraps them around his hips instinctively, even as she bites her lip.

Tequila notices. “You okay?” he asks.

She nods. “Just been awhile. Bit nervous.”

“Me too,” Tequila tells her. “To both.”

She curls her fingers around the back of his neck and strokes at the little wisps of hair there. “Let’s just take this slow, then. Alright?”

He nods and repeats, “Slow.” She uses her free hand to reach down between them, grasping his cock carefully – Tequila shudders and rocks forward into her grip – and lines him up with her entrance.

“Ready, baby?” she asks, and he nods again, although he’s trembling like a colt. The muscles in his arms stand out as she shifts her hips down a little, catching the head of his cock right where she wants it, and he lets out a soft gasp. It’s weirdly adorable, and it makes her smile and forget her nerves enough to use her legs to encourage him to push inside.

It  _ hurts _ . Jesus fucking Christ, it hurts, in a way she hadn't expected, like trying to cram the lid on a piece of Tupperware that’s just a little too full, straining the plastic until you’re worried it’s going to break, and Ginger clenches her jaw and tries not to cry out.

Of course Tequila notices. “Liz?” he asks cautiously. He’s still shaking slightly, she realizes, holding himself back and off her.

She does her best to smile at him. He’s barely in her at all, hardly an inch, and she tells herself that she can do this because it’s Tequila. It’s James. He’s sweet and he’s thoughtful and he tries so damn hard, so she can try for him. It's probably just that she's out of practice, is all. “I’m good,” she says, hoping it comes out breathy instead of gasping. “We’re good, sweetheart, come on.”

Tequila smiles like the goddamn sun, melting her heart into a happy little puddle for a moment, just long enough to forget her misgivings before he pulls out and rocks another inch deeper into her body. Her moment of happiness is interrupted by another stabbing, stretching pain shooting through her and  _ fuck _ , she can’t do this. If it’s this bad now, there’s no way she can fit the rest of him in.

It takes her a moment to find her voice. “James, baby, wait,” Ginger pants. Tequila freezes, concern painting his features, and Ginger takes a few deep breaths, trying to relax. She flinches when Tequila shifts, not maliciously, just to better support himself without crushing her, and the action nudges him a little farther inside of her.

“Pull out,” she tells him, as calmly as she can manage, even as panic starts to rise in her chest, and Jesus, what if he doesn’t, what if he gets pissed, insists on continuing-

She’s hyperventilating before she realizes that she’s tucked herself into a new position, her knees drawn up to her chest and her arms wrapped around them. Tequila’s hand, huge and warm, is rubbing her back soothingly; when she chances a peek at him he doesn’t look angry, just concerned, and Ginger instantly feels guilty.

“Are you alright?” Tequila asks her.

She licks her lips, her mouth almost painfully dry, and tries to figure out what to say.

“I’m sorry,” is the best that she can come up with, and the words feel hollow.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asks, all shyness and worry and eagerness to make it up to her, and it’s moments like these that she remembers he’s a lot younger than her. “I’m sorry if I did, I can do better.”

Ginger shakes her head, “It’s not…you didn’t  _ do _ anything.”

She wonders if that’s the best way to phrase it when, a moment later, Tequila’s face falls and he pulls away from her. “Oh.” There are a few beats of silence where Tequila fidgets, looking unsure, and then he asks tentatively, “Second thoughts, right? Is it because I’m younger than you? Or the drugs? Or, I mean, I know I’m not the brightest and you’re so smart and you deserve a lot better than a high school dropout who-“

“No!” Ginger cuts him off and reaches out for him, curling her fingers around his forearm. “No, James, it’s not about any of that.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t pull away either. Instead, he stares down at the hand she has on him like he can’t believe she’s actually touching him, like he doesn’t deserve it, and Ginger knows where his insecurities come from but it doesn’t make them any easier to disprove.

She has no idea how to tell him what this is really about. She knows her way around a computer no problem. She even knows her way around a human body, more or less (although medicine isn’t her primary training, just a little thing she does on the side). But human emotion? She’s still working at it, at how to not come off too subtle or too blunt.

“It hurt,” is what she ends up blurting out. She winces, and Tequila’s eyes snap to hers, confusion and worry evident in his expression. She blushes and squirms - what is wrong with her? She’s talked to Tequila more than once about his dick. Although, to be fair, the context was a lot different, having more to do with the fact that going on a honey trap high on cocaine was a very bad idea besides just being unprofessional. She’s had similar conversations with Whiskey, except about condoms and STDs instead of drugs.

“What hurt?” Tequila asks carefully. “Liz-“

“I think you’re too big,” she manages. “Or I’m not aroused enough or…I don’t know, something.”

Tequila blinks, looking towards his lap reflexively - Ginger realizes he's removed the condom and wonders when he did that - then back up at her, processing the different parts of her answer. “If you didn’t want to have sex-“ he begins.

“But I did!” she groans, frustrated. The mattress bounces slightly as she flops back against it, running her fingers through her to push it out of her eyes. “I do. I just…” She sighs. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.”

Tequila hesitates, and then cuddles into her side. He’s a lot bigger than her, but he tucks under her arm nicely and she scratches at his scalp lightly, because it feels like the thing to do. The gesture seems to soothe him. “I don’t think anything’s wrong with you,” he mumbles.

She smiles. “Not about the sex thing,” she says. “About the…me not being able to talk like an adult thing.”

“I think you’re doin’ fine,” Tequila says. He looks up at her. “Can we fix it?”

“Fix what?”

He looks so damn earnest. “Sex. If it’s not good for you-“

“James-“

“You want it, right?” he presses. “You just said…”

She kisses the top of his head, resting her forehead there for a moment. “Yeah,” she says softly. “Yeah, I do.”

“So what can I do?” He sits up and turns over so he’s on his side facing her. “We don’t even need to get my dick involved if you don’t want, just tell me what I can do to make it good for you.”

God, it sounds almost funny when he phrases it that way. Ginger lets out a giggle, which makes James blush and smile shyly in return. She sits up, kissing him on the lips, long and sweet, and he melts into it. When she pulls away, he looks a little dazed.

“You really should be able to fit,” she murmurs, the scientist part of her brain – which is, in all honesty, most of her brain – kicking in. “You’re not that big.”

Tequila doesn’t look offended, which is a point in his favor. She’s known a few too many guys, both as a doctor and as a woman, who get very touchy about size. Tequila’s about average, maybe a little bit above. He’s a nice size, really, and from what she knows of biology this shouldn’t be an issue of dimensions.

“Could just be an issue of lubrication,” she thinks aloud. “Or maybe the drugs.”

Tequila flinches away, looking hurt, and she immediately backtracks, “I’m not talking about you, baby, I know you’re trying to stay clean.” He’s…not doing so well, but he’s trying, and at least he’s sticking to marijuana mostly. “I was talking about my allergy medication. Antihistamines can have a dehydrating effect.”

He looks a little lost, but nods anyway, like he knows what she’s talking about. She smiles fondly and explains, “Anything that can dehydrate the body can have an affect on vaginal secretions.” She knows how unsexy that must sound, but Tequila doesn’t seem to mind. He always pays attention when she starts going on about science things, even the concepts he doesn’t understand. Apparently that extends to the bedroom. She bites her lip. “Honestly, between the medication and the amount of coffee I drink…”

“I mean,” Tequila gets that look in his eye, the flirty one that she recognizes from the rare times he feels completely in his comfort zone, “if it’s just a question of you not being wet enough, we can fix that no problem.”

Ginger lifts an eyebrow. “What’d you have in mind?”

Tequila grins and crawls down her body. His intentions become clear when he settles himself comfortably between her legs, looking up at her for a moment, and then lowering his head. Ginger gasps as she feels his tongue on her. “ _ Oh _ ,” she breathes.

She suddenly knows what the cherry stem must feel like. She whimpers, fisting her fingers in his hair as best she can and pushing his face against her because Jesus, that feels so good. He licks a stripe up the center of her, then turns his attention to her clit and sucks. The scrape his teeth makes her gasp, and she tries not to suffocate him by grinding against his face. “So good, baby, don’t stop,” she begs, and Tequila obligingly uses his fingers to part her folds and dips his tongue in deeper, slipping inside her to taste.

Ginger fumbles for the nightstand, tugging open the drawer with no finesse.  She may not keep condoms around, but she does have lube, and she only drops the bottle once when Tequila slides a thick, calloused finger inside her along with his tongue. After a moment’s recovery, she manages to toss it onto the bed down near Tequila’s head. “Use that,” she pants. “Should help.”

Tequila lifts his head and raises his eyebrows. His lips are slick and glistening. “Why didn’t we use it to begin with?”

Because Ginger had been distracted. Because Tequila is attractive, and she was - is - very interested in having sex with him, so she thought she’d be wet enough. “Didn’t think,” is what she settles for telling him. She scratches at his scalp and shifts her leg, her shin brushing against his crotch, and he groans and ruts down against her slightly. The motion only lasts a moment before he collects himself again and pops the cap on the lube, pouring it over his fingers until they’re positively dripping, and then going back down on her.

It feels so much better like this, slick enough that his finger and tongue slide back in easily, and after another minute he adds a second finger to stretch her further. Ginger moans and rocks her hips down against him. The dual sensations - him inside her and one hand still toying with her clit - are overwhelming and drive her closer to the edge, shoving her over before she’s entirely prepared for it.

Tequila gets no warning either, just her hand twisting hard in his hair as she comes with a cry, her back arching up off the bed and then collapsing back against it as she gasps for breath. She takes a minute to breathe, Tequila stilling his actions as he waits for a signal from her, and she props herself up on her elbows to look down at him. She smiles and he pulls away, blushing and ducking his head, leaning his cheek against her thigh and peering up at her.

She pulls him upright as she sits up, drawing him in for a kiss and tasting herself on his lips. “Ready to try this again?” she asks, because she feels ready: open enough from his tongue and his fingers and wet enough that it shouldn’t hurt this time.

Tequila hesitates, then nods, letting her guide him onto his back and reaching for the box of condoms to pass her one. She checks the date again and then tears it open, rolling it down onto his cock and gripping the base firmly. Appropriately, the label reads ‘banana flavored,’ so she ducks down and kitten-licks the head of his erection. Tequila sucks in a breath. 

“Mmm,” she purrs, because honestly, not bad for a flavored condom. She grins up at him, “You mind?”

Tequila laughs, “I ain’t about to stop you. This is your rode- _ oh _ .” His head slams back against the pillow as she wraps her lips around him, sucking and swiping her tongue firmly over the tip. She tests herself, bobbing her head shallowly a few times before she takes him deeper, humming around the shaft and listening, pleased, to the sounds that fall from Tequila’s lips. He’s so responsive, and she loves it.

She surfaces, takes a breath, and then goes down again, all the way this time, relaxing her gag reflex as best she can so she can take him all the way in. The head bumps the back of her throat and Tequila swears loudly as she swallows, shoving at her shoulders in warning. “Jesus, Liz, I’m gonna-”

She pulls off, giving him one last lick, and listens to his breath shudder as he tries to regain control of himself. She smiles up at him. “What do you think, baby? Think it’s wet enough?”

He huffs out a laugh. “If keepin’ me safe wasn’t your job, I’d say you’ll be the death of me.” He reaches for the lube, though, and slicks himself with that too. “Better safe than sorry.”

Ginger straddles Tequila’s hips, settling herself comfortably and leaning down to kiss him. She props herself up on his chest and cocks her head. “You ready? Or do you need another minute?”

“Ready when you are,” Tequila nods.

She grips his erection and guides it, lining the head up with her entrance. The nerves spark briefly and then subside. She can do this.

The head pops in with no resistance as she sinks down onto his length. Tequila grits his teeth and curls his hands into fists and Ginger reaches for one of them, unwinding it and threading their fingers together on the mattress. The pain is gone as she rocks her hips down,  replaced with a slick stretch as he presses deeper inside her. 

“Oh, that's good,” she whispers. It's really been too long since she's done something like this, and it feels amazing. Tequila fits inside her snugly, like two pieces of the same mold, and Ginger knows enough about biology to know how uncommon that is. It's just another point in favor of this, of them. She looks down and is momentarily entranced by Tequila. His eyes are shut and he's making a face she recognizes from another mission, one where Tequila had been tied to a chair in a ballet studio - hence her being able to see his face - and Ginger had teased him about liking it. Apparently, she'd been more right than she thought.

“This feels okay, right?” she asks, because she doesn't want to misinterpret this, wants it to be good for him too.

His eyes flutter open and he gives her a small smile. “Feels amazing. Tight, wet.” He shudders as she rewards him with another inch inside her, her legs straining against gravity to control her descent. He looks briefly worried, and adds, “It's better now, right? It don't hurt anymore? I mean, if you feel tight to me-"

“You feel perfect,” she finishes before he can. She rocks down the last inch so he's all inside her, every inch tucked away in her body. It feels so good, thick and throbbing and warm, and she feels him groan as she clenches around him. She leans down, making Tequila hiss at the shift in angle, and presses kisses along his jawline. “Absolutely perfect, baby. You fit just right.”

He turns his head, trying to catch her lips, and she obliges him. Their kiss is long and sweet, practically chaste considering the position they're in, and she feels rather than hears his gasp as she rocks her hips. His pause allows her to slide her tongue into his mouth, and he lets her lead the kiss as it becomes filthier, trying to chase after when she breaks away, panting. She puts one hand on his chest to keep him down and he stills, watching her.

She adjusts herself in his lap, resettling when she finds the angle she wants, and then lifts herself off him and slides back down experimentally. Tequila goans softly as she begins to work herself on him, changing the angle slightly as she rides him, steadily increasing her pace.

It takes a minute for Tequila to collect himself, whimpering and clinging to her hip with his free hand. When he does, he gets his feet under him and helps with the leverage, driving up into her on the downstroke so each thrust hits deep inside her. 

She reaches down between them, but Tequila lets go of her hip and gets there first, finding her clit with unerring fingers and pinching it between them. She gasps as he rubs her, forcing herself harder against his hand and his cock, chasing the warm feeling burning inside her. Her hand releases his and finds his hair, dragging him up so she can kiss him thoroughly, and he wraps his other arm around her back to keep them balanced. She’s on edge, so close, but not quite there yet, and she whines low in her throat, clenching around him to try and force herself that little bit farther.

Tequila makes a soothing sound against her lips and rolls them over, the motion shoving him a bit deeper inside her. She moans and throws her head back and he uses the opportunity to nibble at her neck. “Wanna make you come, baby,” he mumbles against her skin. “Tell me how to make you feel good.”

She doesn’t have a verbal answer - she’s a bit beyond that now, overwhelmed by sensation - but she guides his head down to her breast anyway. He takes it into his mouth without question, biting down gently on her nipple and rolling it between his teeth, and she cries out as the sharp edge of light pain pushes her that last bit she needs. She can feel her body tightening, and distantly she hears him groan as her walls ripple around him, but she’s too busy enjoying the pleasure coursing through her body to register much else.

She comes back down to the feeling of Tequila pulling out, and she frowns, because he’s still hard. She catches him around the back of the neck so he can’t go far. “What’s up?” she asks softly, and it’s worrying that he won’t meet her eyes.

Tequila shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“Not nothing,” she says. “Talk to me.” He shies away from her hand as she reaches down, and it’s enough to make her release him, sitting up fully.

Tequila shuffles back, looking uncomfortable. “This isn’t...I mean…” He swallows hard.

Ginger doesn’t understand the shift. He seemed fine before, seemed happy and playful, and the change sends a bolt of worry skating up her spine. “Did you-” she stops herself, then starts again, “Baby, if you didn’t want to do that, you should have said-”

Tequila cuts her off, eyes wide, “No, it ain’t that!”

“Then what?” She scoots closer, and this time he doesn’t back away. Her voice is low when she says, “I’m your handler, James, and your partner. I would hope you trust me.”

“With my life.”

“But not with this?”

His erection is flagging slightly and he glances down at it and then to the side, looking ashamed. “I get inside my head sometimes,” he says. “Overthink shit, you know?”

She knows. She waits patiently for him to continue.

“It was good,” he says eventually, “but I just sort of...look, I know it ain’t supposed to work like that, right? All that shit about how it’s supposed to stop you thinking, just feeling, and I was, but then I wasn’t and I second guessed myself and-” He shudders, hunching in on himself, and Ginger’s heart shudders with him. “I like you,” he mumbles. “And I don’t deserve you and I’m just gonna screw this up and-” He swallows again, the word choking off, and Ginger’s eyes widen because Tequila is crying.

She gathers him up in her arms and shushes him gently. “Oh baby,” she murmurs. “I’m sorry.” She can hear the way he’s biting back whimpers, but he can’t stop the flow of tears, so she strokes his hair and scratches at his scalp, leaning in to kiss his temple. “I like you too,” she murmurs. “A lot.” She might even love him, given a little time. “And you deserve that, James. Because you’re a good person. Do you hear me, sweetheart? You’re a good man, and you’re not going to screw this up. I believe in you.”

Tequila laughs wetly. “You always believe in me, Ging,” he says. “It’s your job.” The retreat to her codename is a little worrying, but she lets it slide.

“This isn’t the job,” she tells him. “This is completely separate from the job.” She shifts, tilting his chin up so she can look him in the eye. “I want to be with you, James. I know it’s not going to be easy. Our work is demanding and god knows neither of us are easy people to be with. But I think we can manage just fine. What do you think?”

Tequila hesitates, but eventually he nods. Ginger feels oddly powerful, having this man in her arms. She smiles gently, “I think I still owe you-”

Tequila cuts her off before she can finish that sentence, “If it’s alright with you, I think I’d rather just cuddle a bit. Is...is that okay?”

Her heart melts and she nods. “Of course, baby.”

They get the condom off and clean Ginger up, settling together under the comforter with Ginger spooning Tequila. She should have guessed he’d be the little spoon, and she loves it because it means she can bury her face in the nape of his neck and press kisses there until they both fall asleep. If he’s up for it, they can try again when they wake up. And if not, this is pretty damn good too.

***

“You care about him.”

Ginger looks up, one hand still on the pod that’s keeping Tequila frozen, hopefully stopping the spread of Poppy’s virus. Merlin is leaning in the doorway.

“He’s my agent,” she responds, her tone clipped. “I’m responsible for him.”

Merlin shakes his head and enters, taking a seat opposite her. “That’s not what I meant.”

She stiffens. “I know a relationship with an agent is unprofessional-”

“I’m not here to judge you.”

She blinks, frowning, and Merlin continues, “It’d be a bit hypocritical of me if I were.”

“Oh. You…?”

“Have been as good as married to one of my agents for thirty years. Not that it matters much now.” He drums his fingers gently on the pod, but he’s not looking at Tequila’s frozen face inside. He’s not looking at her either.

“Why not?” she probes, wondering if it’s appropriate to ask.

Apparently it is, because Merlin answers. “Because he doesn’t remember it.”

Butterfly Guy. Harry Hart. The amnesia that still hasn’t been fully fixed. “I’m sorry.”

Merlin gives her a sad smile and shakes his head. “It’s not your fault. If anything, it’s mine. I was the one who always insisted that Harry and I keep our relationship a secret. So I can’t tell him now. Not without looking like I’m taking advantage of him.” He shakes his head, a rueful smile playing at his lips. “Congratulations, by the way. You’re the first person I’ve ever told.”

“Why me?”

Merlin shrugs. “I don’t know. I thought you might understand. You’re grieving the loss of a lover too.”

“He’s not gone!” Ginger can’t help the way it bursts from her defensively. “We’ll find the cure and we’ll fix him. Tequila’s going...he’ll be alright. He has to.”

“And maybe Harry will remember me eventually. We can both hope.”

Ginger shakes her head. “It’s not hope. We’re... _ I’m  _ going to fix him. I can’t let him down.”

“Then don’t.” Ginger looks up to find Merlin watching her, expression sharp and unreadable. “But you’re not going to be able to help him by sitting here moping. So I suggest you pull yourself together, say goodbye, and get back to work. We have a world to save.”

Ginger tilts her head, a habit she picked up from Tequila, and raises her eyebrows defiantly at Merlin. She forces herself to sound harsh because the alternative is to break down in tears and that’s a weakness she can’t allow herself right now. “Pull myself together? Believe me, I’m fine. I just needed a moment to collect my thoughts.” She pats the pod and stands up, Merlin standing up with her, and she smiles at him even as a slight frown creases his forehead. “Now, unless you need a minute,” she says, “I suggest we get back to work.”

Merlin nods in understanding. “Let’s go, then.”

Ginger gestures for him to lead the way. In the doorway, she pauses and looks back. It’s one thing to seem unaffected in front of someone she hardly knows, but it doesn't stop the ache deep inside her at seeing Tequila like this.

_ I  _ will  _ fix this, James,  _ she promises herself.  _ I’ll bring you back to me. We’re going to be fine. _ And, with any luck, so will Merlin and Harry.


End file.
